


all of these thousand miles

by hellstrider



Series: Thousand Miles Verse [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Apologies, But they are besties, Dumb men tripping over their emotions, First Time, Gentle Sex, I would die for Jaskier, M/M, Spoilers, Thousand Miles Verse, Yen and Geralt never sleep together, eventually, post episode 6, pre season finale, so like fast and loose with canon, specifically geralt, the apology, these two ruin me, they arent Like That, they get there, well here i am i guess, which like i mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22056673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: the sun lived and died in your eyes,
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Thousand Miles Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587544
Comments: 182
Kudos: 2925





	all of these thousand miles

**Author's Note:**

> welp im fully in geraskier paradise so welcome,,,
> 
> this is the thousand miles verse, inspired by the song of the same name by tove lo
> 
> it begins six months after episode 6 (we fuddled canon hard here folks)  
> geralt and yen never slept together, 'cause geralt's been all hung up over jaskier,  
> geralt and jaskier didn't go ten fucking years apart,  
> we'll do flashbacks to their adventures and such during that time, etc, 
> 
> the series will go thru the szn finale and will eventually include regis and the rest, 
> 
> the song jaskier writes for geralt/about him was inspired by a lovely ask i got on tumblr about jaskier singing songs absently to himself about geralt after episode 6, when they part ways. it broke me so fine i had to put it into this, 
> 
> main tumblr: billyhargrovens  
> witcher tumblr: thebardjaskier
> 
> xoxo

_“Geralt!”_

_And,_

_Time slows._

_And,_

_There’s an arrow slamming into Jaskier’s gut,_

_And,_

_Geralt’s knees give as he catches the bard’s swift descent,_

_And,_

_His ears ring,_

_As,_

_The golden dragon roars,_

_And,_

_Fire sweeps through the cavern,_

_And,_

_The scent of lilac and gooseberries swirls to life around Geralt, around Jaskier,_

_And,_

_The remaining Reavers turn to cinders,_

_As,_

_Blood seeps through the white linen of Jaskier’s tunic,_

_And,_

We should leave;

Could go to the coast,

_And,_

_Blue eyes gleam far too bright as they meet Geralt’s, as Yennefer’s violet magic surrounds them, keeps the fire Borch breathes away,_

_But it won’t keep_ death _at bay, won’t stop the blood that seeps through Geralt’s fingers,_

_Won't stop him from losing Jaskier, the one thing he couldn't,_

_And,_

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Witcher.”

Geralt lifts his gaze from the untouched pool of watery ale in the chipped mug between his palms to find violet eyes watching him warily across the table.

And,

Guilt _twists_ like a cut serpent in his gut as he breathes _deep_ , as Yennefer slowly pulls off her gloves and waves at a passing barmaid; “a pitcher, I think,” the sorceress orders, “and the freshest food you’ve got,”

The barmaid curtsies, blushing, and then Yennefer plops down in the rickety chair across the sad, knife-marked table, still watching Geralt with a brow arched and her cheek between her teeth.

“You look like shit,” she observes, blunt as ever,

And Geralt snorts, thumbs over the rim of his mug as Yennefer’s scent washes over him - _lilac, gooseberries_ \- and all it makes him think of is fire and an unconquerable, new sort of _fear,_ of the exact shade of crimson of the blood that had seeped out between his desperate fingers from Jaskier's belly, _and,_

“How long’s it been this time?” Yennefer asks, as the barmaid appears with a pitcher of watered-down ale, with bread and meat and cheese, and Yennefer presses a fat gold coin into her palm, “three months? _Six?_ Is there a cadence to this curse you’ve put on me, or?”

“Yen,” Geralt sighs, and his voice _aches_ , and he doesn’t remember the last time he’s gotten a night of proper sleep, “listen,”

“Oh, no more _excuses_ , Geralt, they _bore_ me.” The sorceress takes a sip of ale, makes a face, then takes another; “I heard enough on the damn mountain. I’ll find a way to undo it, but in the meantime, here we are.”

“Here we are,” Geralt mutters; “did the griffon give you much trouble?” Yen asks over him, and Geralt breathes out through his nose, and it’s _tense_ , heated, and Yennefer’s anger is _palpable_ across the table,

And she _deserves_ to be angry,

Because Geralt went and put a damn _leash_ on her, just to keep the djinn from ripping her _apart_ in payment for her demand of the _world,_

Which was a rule that none dared to test with djinn,

Unless one _was,_ of course, _Yennefer of Vengerberg,_

And people have been putting _leashes_ on one Yennefer of Vengerberg since she came into the world,

But he _didn’t_ –

It _wasn’t_ –

“If I could undo it,” Geralt says, “I would,”

And now it’s Yen’s turn to breathe in _deep_ , and the sorceress undoes the clasps on her extravagant coat, revealing the black and white gown beneath, and she leans forwards on the table, rubs a hand over her eyes, suddenly looks about as exhausted as Geralt _feels,_

“We both have _jobs_ to do, Geralt,” she says dryly, “and they put us at odds. That’s just the way of things.”

“I know.”

And now Yen smirks, and she says, “though in terms of _jackasses_ I could be bound to, I suppose I could do _worse_. Even if you _reek_ of griffon and horse and look like utter _shit.”_

“Always such a pleasure, Yennefer,”

“Come now. You’ve made your bed, dear Witcher.” Yennefer leans back in her seat then, eyeing him, and she always _sees too much_ , Yennefer does, is always able to read him like a damn book made out of only pictures; “I hear your bard fares well in Vizima.”

And,

Geralt suddenly feels _so fucking exhausted_ he might as well just be buried face-down _right_ here, under the rotting, _molding_ floorboards,

And Yennefer _always_ knows where to dig where it hurts the most,

And Geralt supposes he _deserves_ that,

Because he’s put a _leash_ on a woman that’s been leashed since she came into the world, who fought _so hard_ to get _free_ ,

And it was to _save_ her,

But now he’s _chained_ her,

And it’s _not fair_ ,

So he shuts his eyes and Yennefer is _silent_ , silent as he counts his slow, dripping heartbeats,

As he hears;

 _You’re the biggest damned fool I’ve ever had the_ misfortune _of meeting, Jaskier,_

_You don’t mean that,_

_Yes, I_ do,

_Geralt, c’mon –_

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take_ you _off my hands,_

And,

_The last thing I want is someone needing me,_

_And yet,_

_Here we are,_

And,

He remembers the _scent_ of Jaskier’s blood, the copper-cinnamon-seasalt _burn_ of it, and he remembers the way Jaskier’s eyes had fluttered shut, and he remembers _thinking_ \- thinking they’d _never open again_ , and –

“He’s not _my_ bard,” Geralt growls, and Yennefer’s eyes are too _keen_ , too _knowing,_

“No,” she says slowly, “I believe you made that _abundantly_ clear. To both the _bard_ and the rest of the fucking _mountain.”_

(And somewhere, destiny gives a _heaving sigh_ , because she’s had to work _overtime_ when it came to one Geralt of Rivia, _so_ ,)

The faint sound of a lute floats through the tavern, and Geralt looks past Yennefer to the little bardling at the fire across the room,

And she’s a young thing with a heart-shaped face and red curls,

And her voice is _fine_ , pleasant,

The kind of voice he can _tune out,_

So he does,

Until he hears –

_The sun lived and died in your eyes,_

And,

_A crown of snow betrayed the heart of ice,_

And,

_I have never been clever, never been wise,_

And,

_Even after you vanished like the summer rains thrice,_

And,

_This blood of mine will be your tithe,_

And the bardling’s voice is sweet, fine, _pleasant,_ but her words are fucking _brutal,_ and Geralt feels a shudder rip down his spine as she drags mournful notes from her lute, and his chest is so _tight,_ tighter than it has been since –

 _“Oh,”_ Yennefer murmurs, laughing a tad breathlessly, _a little_ – a little _spitefully_ , actually, “ _oh,_ this is _rich,”_ and,

She’s _too clever,_ too keen, too _knowing,_

As her violet eyes scrape over Geralt, as her tongue pushes at her cheek, and Geralt _can’t fucking breathe_ , because,

“You know this is about _you,_ don’t you?”

“I _haven’t –“_

“You haven’t _heard_ this one?” Yennefer tilts her head. “ _All_ the ladies in Temeria _swooned_ the day your bard sang this song in court. Quite a few men did, too. I’m _sure_ lords and ladies _both_ were lining up to try and soothe the poor thing afterwards, whether with coin or cock,”

And the mere – _thought of it,_

Has Geralt’s heart going _dark,_

Has his stomach _shriveling_ ,

Has his tongue going _sour,_

And some green-eyed _beastling_ rears its head up in his shadow-clutched chest, and,

Yennefer looks like she can _feel it,_ violet eyes suddenly _violently_ bright, suddenly _delighted_ and somehow _furious_ all at once as she breathes, “ _oh,”_ and Geralt –

Thinks he might be about to break a few of his own _teeth_ , actually,

As the sorceress croons, “so the _wolf_ fell in love with the _lark._ Geralt of Rivia, the _Butcher of Blaviken,_ brought to his damn _knees_ by a little bardling with a _broken wing,”_

“How do you –“ Geralt thinks he might be about to spit glass; “ _how did you,”_

“I’ve been keeping tabs,” the sorceress cuts in icily, “falls into trouble _often_ , your bard. And now he doesn’t have a big, _strong_ Witcher to keep him out of the fire.”

“Why do you _give a shit?”_ Geralt asks, all _rough_ , all heartless _Witcher_ , all _White Wolf_ , but he knows he _can’t shake Yennefer_ , couldn’t, not even if he _tried,_ and the sorceress is still watching him as if she’s discovered the greatest secret of the _century,_

That _Geralt of fucking Rivia_ was brought to his damned _knees_ by a _bardling_ that wouldn’t be moved from his side until Geralt broke _both_ his wings with brutal, _merciless_ hands,

And Geralt _can’t fucking breathe,_ and his blackened heart is lodged up in his throat, and all he can _think of_ when he smells lilac and gooseberries is the way Jaskier’s sky-blue eyes had fluttered shut in the cavern, the way he’d gone _limp_ with an arrow meant for Geralt in his gut, crimson running over Geralt’s hands, _and,_

“It’s not _easy,”_ Yennefer murmurs then, eyes suddenly a little distant, “knowing your heart is out there, walking around outside your body. Knowing you’ve _no hope_ of winning it back. And you _are_ his heart, Geralt, do not mistake me. Even if you _loathe_ it, loathed it so much you tried to _ruin_ him,”

“I _never,”_ and Geralt’s voice is _cruel_ now, _horrible_ , all broken glass and poison, and Yennefer gives him a Look, _deadly_ and _challenging,_ one he largely _ignores_ as he snarls, “I did what I had to do to _protect_ him,”

At which the sorceress _scoffs_ dismissively, and then she’s leaning over the table too, violet eyes sharp, _edged_ , and Geralt’s hackles are rising as a heartbroken tune pours through the tavern, sung with a voice that isn’t _nearly_ as fine as the one who sang it first, all because of what one _Geralt of Rivia_ had done,

“Like you did what you had to do to protect _me?”_ Yennefer demands; “you _leashed_ one thing and cut the other one _loose_. How many lives will you _burn through_ to keep yourself from feeling _anything_ , Geralt? They say Witchers _can’t_ feel, but I know that’s _bullshit_. It’s _all_ bullshit. You’re so _terrified_ of feeling _anything at all_ that you’ve decided to make everyone else _suffer,_ ”

“Would you rather be _dead_ , Yennefer?”

“I would rather have been given a _choice!”_ and the candles at the end of the table _flare_ a bit, as Yennefer snaps it, as she _bites_ it out, and Geralt feels it like a punch to the damned throat,

And then Yennefer breathes _deep_ as she rubs a hand over her brow, as she huffs out a weak, _brittle_ laugh,

Says,

“I don’t know why I _try_. I _pity_ the bastard, I think. The way he _looked at you_ , that day in Rinde…” She shakes her head, bites her bottom lip, and her violet eyes are _misty_ , which, just, sets Geralt’s _teeth_ on _edge_ in a whole new way; “I had someone who looked at _me_ like that, once. And you know what I did?”

“I can take a guess,” Geralt mutters hoarsely, _because they’re_ – they’re horribly _similar,_ the pair of them, two souls that’ve lived about a _hundred_ years too long, two souls with little choice in the hand fate dealt them,

But then,

_Does anyone?_

And,

There’s a _child_ out there with Geralt’s claim on them, and Yennefer’s been leashed to him unwillingly, all because he _couldn’t let her die,_ that day in Rinde, and he’s cut loose the one thing he _couldn’t lose_ before fate could take it permanently from him,

 _Because_ of him,

 _“Borch,”_ Geralt rasps, and Yennefer arches a brow, “the – the _dragon_. Said I would lose him.”

And Yennefer’s eyes roll so hard he thinks she might see her own _skull,_

“So you thought you’d go ahead and fulfill that _self-realizing_ prophecy _right away_ , did you?”

To which; “hm,”

“Yes, _hm_ , indeed.”

Yennefer sucks her teeth, looks almost – _fond_ , as she shakes her head, and Geralt’s chest _hurts_ like he’s got the winter rattles, and his stomach’s been _halved_ , left open on the bottom, and it’s _always fucking like this_ , when they find each other, always like Geralt’s being forced to take a fork in a road he can’t see,

“It’s not _easy,”_ Yennefer says then, “walking about with your heart living outside your body. Is it?”

And Geralt shuts his eyes, breathes -

_Breathes -_

He _can't quite -_

_Can't -_

Can't quite _fill his lungs,_ this time,

And he _misses_ Jaskier like -

Like he's _lost_ the ashen heart that beats so _slow_ , so _hollow,_ in the brimstone cave of his chest,

_And,_

It's been half a years' turn,

And,

_Falls into trouble often, your bard,_

But he's not -

_Is he not?_

And Geralt opens his eyes to meet Yennefer's, and she's _always_ been able to read him like a _damn book_ , a book with only pictures, and as her voice echoes through his skull, his brimstone chest begins to crumble down to wool, and,

Yennefer lifts her chin, arches a brow,

Says,

"You broke the poor bird _right_ in two, and yet _all_ he can sing about is _you,_ "

And,

It’s _always like this_ , when he sees Yennefer,

Always a fork in a road he can’t see,

And _this time,_

They’re in the room Geralt’s paid for and won’t be using,

And there’s a map of Vizima on the rickety little table by a window so old it’s gone white,

And Yennefer speaks in Elder as she sweeps a hand over the yellowed parchment,

And the map starts to _shimmer,_ a bit, like oil over water, and then the oil coalesces over a single point, in the center of the city,

And Yennefer lifts her violet gaze to Geralt’s,

And the sorceress folds the map up with practiced hands, shoves it into his chest,

Says,

“He falls into trouble _often_ , your bard. Better get there _quick,_ Witcher. I would offer a portal, but I know you loathe them. Wouldn’t want vomit all down your front when he sees you again, _hm?”_

“Yen,”

 _“Don’t_ , Geralt.”

And the sorceress… _True emotion_ blurs over her slender face, for a moment, _and it_ – it _pulls_ at Geralt’s withered heartstrings, _and,_

“There is so much _wrong_ in the world, Witcher. Do not let the right thing _go_ , all for the fear of _losing_ it in the end. You will live as a dead thing walking, believe me. You're _important_ to someone. You _belong_ to someone. Don't squander it."

And it’s _times like these_ when Geralt realizes he doesn’t know _nearly_ as much about one _Yennefer of Vengerberg_ as he should; it’s times like these that he remembers she’s got a story as _wounded_ and _bloodied_ as his own hiding behind her violet eyes, has tragedies and regrets, triumphs and victories, has a _beating heart_ beneath the veneer of marble she keeps it so carefully behind,

And it’s moments like these when he remembers their conversation on the mountain,

When they’d been caught out in the strapping wind, when Geralt had demanded, _why do you need to find this dragon so damn badly, Yen?_

And Geralt’s eyes had tracked Jaskier over Yennefer’s shoulder where he picked through some brush to reach a white wildflower,

Because Geralt was _always_ looking towards Jaskier, because the bardling was the true north on his broken compass,

And he’d watched Jaskier pluck a white wildflower from a thatch of brambles as Yennefer finally _confessed_ her desperate desire to _reverse_ what had been done to gain the power she wields now,

The power she almost _died_ for,

And he remembers;

_A sorceress never regains her womb,_

And,

_I dreamt of being important to someone,_

And,

_I had someone who looked at me like that, once,_

And Geralt reaches out to touch her cheek, and Yennefer – she doesn’t move away, just gives him a _tight-lipped_ , terse smile, and,

“Until next time, sorceress,”

“I do _so_ look forward to it, Witcher,”

And,

Vizima is a fortnight’s ride away,

And maybe he should’ve risked the _damn portal_ ,

But,

Roach makes it in ten days,

Because when Geralt can’t even depend on _himself_ , he’s always got her,

And they make it to Vizima at dusk, as the sky starts to open overhead, and Geralt digs out the map as a young girl leads Roach to the dry, warm refuge of the stable just inside the city’s gates,

And the magic still shimmers where it marks Geralt’s true north, tucked in the refuge of the city sprawling out before him, and,

It starts to rain _proper_ as Geralt finds himself at the wide, sprawling doors of a vast tavern, well-lit, warm, smelling of proper spiced ale and wine, of roasting pig and stew, of perfume and velvet,

And,

The scent of _cedar,_

Of _smoke,_

Of _summer roses,_

Washes over him as _soon_ as he sets foot over the threshold,

And,

Clever fingers coax a _mournful,_ heartbroken song from a lute he’s heard so many times before,

And,

These _fools_ that pack the tavern would do well to _shut their fucking mouths_ and _listen,_

Listen to the voice that pours from the lips of a bard perched on a stool before the vast, boar-helmed fireplace across the way from where Geralt stands,

Invisible in the mire of the neglectful, _foolish_ crowd, the crowd that laughs boisterously amongst themselves, that chatters and blathers about _meaningless nonsense,_

But even as they chatter about bullshit and laugh over _nothing,_ all Geralt can hear is;

_The sun lived and died in your eyes,_

And,

_A crown of snow betrayed the heart of ice,_

And,

_I have never been clever, never been wise,_

And,

_Even after you vanished like the summer rains thrice,_

And,

_This blood of mine will be your tithe,_

And,

All he can _smell_ ,

Through the haze of spiced ale, of wine, of roasting pig, of stew, of the heat of human bodies,

Is _cedar_ ,

_Smoke,_

_Summer rose,_

And,

The world narrows down, narrows until _all_ Geralt can see is the bardling perched on the stool in front of the fire, 

And there's _no turning back_ , not now, as the world _narrows down_ , all the excess carved away by the hands of some _obsession,_ until the only thing _left_ is the object of a _devotion_ Geralt _just couldn't shake,_

And,

Jaskier is _thinner,_

Looks _resplendent_ still, in violet finery, a sash of sapphire around his lithe waist,

And he’s got new rings on his clever fingers,

A delicate, golden droplet of a thing dangling from his right earlobe,

_And,_

Geralt’s _old_ , blackened, _foolish_ heart thunders in his throat as his empty chest _aches,_ aches like he’s got the winter rattles, and he _can’t fucking breathe_ , can’t fill his lungs even as he drags in cedar, smoke, summer rose,

And,

He wishes the tavern empty even as he uses the crowd to keep himself invisible,

As he follows the trail of _cedar,_

Of _smoke,_

Of _summer rose,_

Follows it _away_ from where Jaskier is perched on a stool in front of the boar-helmed fire,

Up through the three-tiered tavern to a door that’s fucking _unlocked,_ and Geralt doesn’t remember _how many times_ he’s told Jaskier to _lock his fucking doors_ ,

But he _never fucking does it,_

And,

_He falls into trouble often, your bard,_

But,

_Not my bard,_

_No,_

_You made that abundantly clear,_

And,

The room is cluttered, _messy,_ because Jaskier treats his finery like they’re peasant’s linens, and there are empty wine bottles littered across the tables, the tables strewn with parchment bearing Jaskier’s elegant scrawl, some fully scratched out by a frustrated hand, _and,_

The bed is rumpled, left unmade, and Geralt steps carefully towards it, nostrils flaring as his _instinct_ ignites,

And he lets out a low, burring _rumble_ when he finds the rumpled sheets don’t smell like _anyone_ but Jaskier,

But even if it _only_ smells of him,

That doesn’t mean Jaskier hasn’t been in _other_ people’s beds,

And the green-eyed thing in Geralt’s chest snaps its maw as his nose furls, a little,

And the green-eyed thing doesn’t _deserve_ to be green-eyed _at all,_

Because Geralt drove away the one thing he couldn’t lose himself before fate could rip it away from him instead, and,

_How many lives will you burn through to keep from feeling anything?_

And,

_I need no one,_

_And the last thing I want is someone needing me,_

_And yet,_

_Here we are,_

And,

_You belong to someone,_

But he wasn't - _wasn't -_

Yet,

_Is he not?_

And,

Geralt runs a hand over the blue coat slung over the headboard of the bed, the bed that doesn’t smell like anyone but Jaskier, and he _recognizes_ this one, because this is the one he’d worn that day in Rinde, when Geralt had almost _lost him_ to a vengeful Djinn,

And Geralt remembers how it had felt like _this,_ then – like his stomach had been _halved_ , left open to _bleed,_ as he’d watched Jaskier sleep in the clutch of Yennefer’s healing magic, reeking still of road and horse, because the Witcher couldn’t be budged from the bard’s side to bathe, no matter how much Yennefer prodded at him,

And he remembers how it had _felt,_

When, _after it all,_ Jaskier had come clattering in as soon as Geralt had managed to pull himself off the floor, after Yennefer had whisked them out from beneath the capsizing roof, and Jaskier had been _right there_ , as Geralt pulled himself off of the pillow-and-wine strewn floor in the mayor’s ruined estate,

How Jaskier _had looked –_

Looked –

_So fucking terrified,_

As he’d checked Geralt over with frantic hands, blue eyes just this side of _wild,_

As he’d ranted, _raged,_ “I _told you_ , told you to _leave it alone_ , you’re _so stupid_ , I _hate you,_ you won’t keep getting _lucky_ like this,” and,

“Is this him getting _lucky?”_ Yennefer had grumbled from the floor, face pressed into a pillow, “how _horrifying,”_ and,

It _had been,_

 _Lucky,_ that is,

Because Jaskier had been _safe,_

And they’d escaped death by the skin of their teeth _yet again,_

And,

“This might just be a _tavern_ , I _get that_ , but this is still _breaking_ and _entering.”_

“The door,” Geralt says; his ashen, half-lost heart’s in his throat and everything smells of _cedar_ , of _smoke_ , of _summer rose_ , and his fingertips tingle and burn as they slide over the fine coat, the one Jaskier had worn in Rinde; “it was unlocked. How many times have I told you to _lock your damn door,_ Jaskier?”

And how Geralt musters the courage to turn around, he doesn’t know, but one moment he’s gazing blankly out at the rain-splattered streets of Vizima, and _the next –_

The _next,_

He’s looking upon the face he hasn’t seen in half a year’s turn.

And there’s a new scar on Jaskier’s brow, one Geralt wasn’t there to keep him from earning,

And he’s _thinner_ , features sharper, lean waist all wrapped in sapphire silk,

And he has a delicate, golden bauble dangling from one ear, new rings on his fingers, soft streaks of sunlight through his windswept, chestnut hair,

But those eyes are _exactly_ the same as they’ve _always_ been,

Fierce and _impossibly_ sky-blue.

And _Geralt_ _can’t_ – he can’t _fucking breathe_ as drinks in the sight of Jaskier up close, as a muscle ticks in Jaskier’s jaw, as the bard kicks away from the doorjamb and heels the door shut,

As he heads for a half-drunk bottle of amber liquor on one of the messy, parchment-strewn tables, taps his fingertips idly over the jeweled cork before glancing sharply towards Geralt as he asks,

“Any particular _reason_ you’ve broken into my room to molest my things, Geralt?”

And his voice hasn’t _ever_ sounded like this – not with _Geralt_ , at least,

_Bitter,_

Icy,

_Cold,_

And he deserves _much worse_ , he _gets that_ , knows it, _but,_

“Was nearby,” Geralt lies, and Jaskier arches a brow, the scarred one, and then there’s a long, dragging beat, before; “well, _wonderful,”_ the bard drawls, swirling the bottle of amber liquor around in one ringed hand, “could you maybe go be maddeningly _vague_ and stoic somewhere else? I need to work.”

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

“And I suppose you can _smell_ that on me, can you?”

“No,” _yes,_ but also _,_ “I just know you,”

_And,_

Jaskier’s nose twitches, _furls_ , a bit, and he digs his teeth into his bottom lip before huffing out a _spiteful_ little laugh,

And he runs a hand through his hair, chestnut and gold-streaked in the firelight, and _Geralt can’t_ – can’t take his _aching_ eyes _off of him_ , can’t stop himself from tracing the sharp jut of his cheekbone, the sleek line of his jaw, can’t stop watching the way the candelight chases shadows across the pale column of his throat,

_And,_

There's _truly,_ absolutely, _completely_ no turning back now.

And he _knows_ Yennefer _knew_ that,

Knew that the _moment_ Geralt set eyes on Jaskier again it would be _over,_

Because Jaskier is the _only one_ that's ever brought one Geralt of Rivia to his _damn knees_ , 

And he'd _left him,_ left Jaskier behind before fate could rip him away,

But _here he is,_

Because every time he and Yennefer meet, it's like taking a fork in the road he can't fucking _see,_

But this invisible road led him the thousand miles to Jaskier, the finest kingdom Geralt's ever looked upon,

Who sang about the sun _dying_ in Geralt's eyes,

About his heart of _ice,_ the heart Jaskier held in his hands,

Of the way Geralt was always _leaving,_

How he'd made Jaskier _bleed_ , both from his skin and soul, 

And,

There's _no turning back,_

Because -

_You belong to someone,_

So,

“Heard your song,” and the words, just, pour from Geralt’s tongue, _unbidden;_ “in a tavern not a week outside Kaer Morhen,”

“That’s nice,”

And Geralt finds himself moving, sidling towards the bard stood adrift in the sea of his finery, the finery he treats like peasant’s linens, adrift in a sea of ink-soaked parchment, parchment that's scrawled with words he's bled out _all_ for Geralt, 

And Geralt's throat _burns_ as he says, _quiet,_ low, “sounds better when it’s _you,”_ and,

Jaskier’s sky-blue eyes flutter shut,

And he looks about as _agonized_ as he had the day Geralt caught him in the cave with an arrow in his belly - an arrow that had been _meant_ for _Geralt to take,_

An arrow he _should’ve_ taken,

 _Would’ve_ , a _thousand_ times over,

A thousand times _more,_

And,

Geralt’s half-dead heart is going as quick as it can, the way it gets fast always and only whenever he’s caught in the mire of battle,

And this _is_ a battle, he thinks, one he’s been fighting since;

_The last thing I want is someone needing me,_

_And yet,_

_Here we are,_

A battle he’s been _losing,_

One he doesn’t think the true heart of him ever wanted to _win,_

And he thinks about;

_We should leave,_

_Go to the coast,_

And,

_Talk to me, Geralt,_

And,

_You’re so stupid,_

_Won’t keep getting lucky,_

But,

_Here he is,_

And,

“I didn’t write it so you’d _hear it_ ,” Jaskier says fiercely, and his normally silken voice is grating, _sharp_ , barbed as fishhooks,

And those hooks sink through Geralt’s skin even as he moves across the room, step by sidling step, and Jaskier watches him like he’s a starving Drowner as he says hotly, “I didn’t write it _for you_ , just so we’re fucking _clear,”_ and _,_

“Stop – _stop that_ , stop – _moving_ , just – what the _fuck_ are you _doing here,_ Geralt? Come to _threaten me_ , have you, _Witcher?_ I won’t stop _singing it,_ you don’t _frighten me,”_

And,

_Yes, I do,_

_But only when I’m gone,_

And,

Geralt can’t _breathe_ as the hooks lacing Jaskier’s grating voice sink through his skin, pull him forwards, and Jaskier takes a step back, _stumbles,_ a bit, over his own feet, and his blue eyes are _just this side_ of _wild_ , just this side of _furious_ , of agonized, of _fierce,_

“What’re – Geralt, _what the_ –“

And Jaskier’s back hits the wall beside the door, and he’s breathing _quick_ , fast, and he smells like ink, like firelight, like cedar, smoke, summer rose, like _fear_ , and Geralt corners the bard as he realizes _this is –_

Now,

See,

He’s lived a _long time,_ Geralt has,

And he’s become adept at pinpointing the _exact moment_ a fight becomes _fruitless,_

The moment when it’s no longer a fight but a desperate bid for _survival,_

And that kind of moment is hitting him _now,_

As he realizes _he hasn’t –_

Hasn’t been _breathing right,_

Not until _this moment,_

Hasn’t been breathing _right_ from the moment the arrow slammed into Jaskier’s gut, the arrow that Geralt should’ve taken,

_Would’ve,_

And,

_Cedar,_

_Smoke,_

_Summer rose,_

Flood through his lungs,

And it feels like he’s breathing for the _first fucking time_ in his too-long life,

And _see,_

This is when the fight _ends_ ,

When –

_The wolf fell in love with the lark,_

And,

Maybe this fight was fruitless from the _start,_

(And somewhere, fate and destiny tangle their fingers together and heave sighs of _relief,_ because they’ve always had to work two, _three_ times as hard when it came to _one Geralt of Rivia_ ,)

But,

_Here he is,_

And,

“I came to Vizima to find _you_ ,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s eyes _narrow_ , a bit, which should’ve been his _first clue,_ but he’s breathing right for the first time since the arrow hit the bard Geralt would’ve taken a _thousand_ arrows for, and he’s _lightheaded_ with cedar, with smoke, _summer rose;_ “I had to see you. Needed to.”

To which; “I thought the great Geralt of Rivia needed _no one_ ,” Jaskier says blithely, and he’s tense, and his eyes are _shrewd_ , calculating, and Geralt’s _too stupidly high_ on his _fucking scent_ to notice it,

And the _next clue_ should’ve been the fact that Jaskier doesn’t _flinch_ when Geralt slides a hand over his jaw, doesn’t even blink, but his gaze is still sharply _calculating_ , suspicious, and Geralt’s _too stupidly high_ on the sight of him to _notice,_

Until,

Harsh, _acrid_ liquid splashes up in Geralt’s face, _and he’d_ – he’d _forgotten_ about the amber liquor, but as he splutters and _snarls,_ he realizes it’s not liquor _at all,_ but some kind of damned fucking _potion,_

 _“Jaskier!_ What the –“

 _“Burns,_ doesn’t it?” Jaskier demands triumphantly as Geralt shakes like a _dog_ and swipes furiously at his soaking face with a frustrated grunt, “I _knew_ you must’ve been _bewitched,”_

 _“What?”_ Geralt spits, all _harsh,_ and Jaskier looks _fierce_ and triumphant _and_ – and a little _vengeful,_ which is – it shouldn’t be as _stirring_ as Geralt finds it to be, but there it is; “it doesn’t – _burn._ Tastes like _shit,_ though, where the _fuck_ did you get this? Give it – _Jaskier,”_

But Jaskier dances out of reach when Geralt tries to snatch the bottle away, and his eyes are wide, _huge,_ as he asks warily _, “it doesn’t_ – doesn’t burn?”

“ _No_ ,” Geralt drawls, patience wearing a little _thin,_ now, because whatever – fucking _sensing_ potion Jaskier soaked him with really does taste _terrible_ , “what the _fuck_ are you doing? _Would_ _you just –“_

“Is it a _curse?_ Has someone _cursed you?_ I’ve a potion for that, too, somewhere here, we can figure it out, give me a moment - have you crossed any witches? Did you upset Yennefer? Is she forcing you to live out your worst nightmares?”

And Geralt watches in total and utter _bewilderment_ as Jaskier turns to dig through a canvas bag sat on a table at the foot of the bed, the bed that only smells like him, _and,_

 _“What?”_ the Witcher blurts, feeling, not for the first time with the bard, _completely_ out of his depth, but,

“You, _with the_ – the _touching_ , and being here, _finding me_ – saying you _need me,”_ and Jaskier sounds _panicked_ and _accusing_ now, and his voice is a bit _reedy_ , and Geralt’s chest twists with a sudden _grieving guilt_ , the kind of thing that makes his throat twist with it, too, as Jaskier prattles on, says, “maybe _I_ pissed her off, I never know, she’s incredibly hard to read, your sorceress,”

“ _My –“_ And Geralt reels, a bit, “she’s _not my_ – hold on, _what?_ Has she _been here?”_

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you, _she’s been_ – she’s been teaching me things,” Jaskier says absently, and he rubs some – _oil_ on his hand, then fucking _licks it,_ and, “ _nope_ , it’s not me, here –“

_“Jaskier –“_

“Just _give me your hand_ ,”

“Not if you’re going to put that shit on me,”

“Geralt, don’t be a _jackass,_ just,”

“I’m not _cursed!”_ Geralt explodes, and Jaskier sways back, brows lifting as Geralt spits out a virulent _“fuck_ ,” before snatching whatever _fucking oil_ Yennefer’s _given Jaskier_ up, and it tastes _just_ as shitty as the sensing potion, so Geralt spits on the floor as Jaskier wrinkles his nose,

“Surely not the _worst_ thing that’s been on this floor,” the bard remarks, taking the oil back, and Geralt _loves him_ so fucking much it’s –

“ _Shit_ ,” he utters, and,

_Geralt of Rivia,_

_Butcher of Blaviken,_

_Brought to his damn knees by a little bardling with a broken wing,_

And there’s _nothing fucking else_ he can do but crowd Jaskier back against the wall again, and _this time_ he doesn’t – he doesn’t _waste time,_

Just,

Catches Jaskier’s hitching, “ _Geralt,_ ” against his tongue,

Snatches it between his teeth,

And,

Jaskier’s hands fist in his cloak, damp with sensing potion and rain, and Geralt’s sure he must taste _terrible,_ because he’s been on the road for a week straight and he’s been soaked by foul potions that Yennefer has _happily_ supplied his bard with, and,

_This is –_

He _is_ Geralt’s,

But even though he’s sure he must taste _awful,_

Jaskier surges up against him, clever tongue sliding _desperately_ alongside his own, and Geralt snakes a _possessive_ , iron-strong arm around Jaskier’s too-thin waist with a groan that shakes his bones as he drags the bard away from the wall,

And,

“I _hate you,”_ Jaskier’s saying now, _right_ against Geralt’s lips, over and over, and he steps on Geralt’s boots as Geralt walks backwards, fool heart in his damn _throat,_ “I hate you _so much_ , I can’t _stand_ you –“

“I know,” Geralt grunts, chest burning like he’s swallowed dragonfire, “I _know_ ,”

And he’s feeling drunker than he thinks he’s _ever_ been as Jaskier yanks the clasp of his cloak away, and he’s stood on Geralt’s boots as Geralt stumbles blindly for the bed, the bed that smells _only_ of Jaskier,

But it’ll smell like _him,_ too, soon,

And,

The green-eyed thing in his chest _cackles_ , cackles at the thought even as Geralt tastes saltwater, and Jaskier shoves his cloak away as Geralt gets his hands wrapped around the sinuous muscle of the bard’s waist, and he’s _thin,_ too thin, but he fits _so well_ in the bookends of Geralt’s palms, so well it sort of – makes his vision _tunnel_ , a little, and,

Geralt’s _painfully hard_ in his breeches as Jaskier yanks at the belts holding his armor together, and he’s panting soft and hot against Geralt’s tongue, is bleeding diamonds from his sky-blue eyes, and Geralt slides a hand around his nape, thinks he might be about to shed his own skin with the armor that Jaskier’s gotten adept at stripping him of,

Because for more than a _decade,_

Jaskier is the one who’s been stripping him of his armor,

Is the one that’s been pulling one Geralt of Rivia back together with _clever_ , ringed fingers,

Is the _only one_ who _ever has,_

And the kiss tastes of saltwater, of the thousand miles that Geralt had crossed to find the one he _couldn’t lose_ , the one he _drove away_ , the one he _doesn’t deserve,_

The one that brought him to his knees, _and,_

As his thick leather jerkin falls open, slips from his shoulders,

Geralt _does_ sink to his knees,

Sinks to his knees, stripped of his armor,

Slides penitent palms down the slender, firm muscle of Jaskier’s waist,

Grips his sharp hips,

And,

_“Geralt –“_

But then Geralt’s lacing his fingers through the silk ribbons holding his breeches together, and Jaskier makes a _strangled_ sort of sound as he works them loose,

As he tugs his three belts open,

As he unwraps the sapphire sash from about Jaskier’s waist,

And the bard’s fine violet coat hits the floor in a crumpled heap,

And Geralt’s _chewing_ on his godsforsaken heart as he slides a hand up under the hem of Jaskier’s tunic, _and,_

“Geralt,” Jaskier says again, thick, _hoarse_ , because he knows _exactly_ what it is Geralt’s searching for with calloused fingertips,

And when he _finds it,_ he breathes in as deep as he can,

And Jaskier slides a hand through his hair as Geralt traces the scar from the arrow, the arrow that was meant for him, the arrow he should’ve taken,

The one he’d take a _thousand_ times over,

And it’s a gnarled, _ugly_ thing, the kind of scar he knows _hurts_ still, sometimes, and then Jaskier’s unlacing his tunic, tugs it off so Geralt _has to_ – to _look at it,_

And,

Geralt sucks in a violent breath between his teeth, _because the_ – the _scar_ is – it’s _purple,_ in the center, violet veins sprawling in a small tangle from the knotted skin, and the Witcher presses his palm to it, covers it up, and Jaskier’s hand slides to cover him,

“It’s because of,” and Jaskier _sounds_ about as wrecked as Geralt _feels,_ “Yennefer’s magic, it’s – she’s all - _purple_ ,” and,

“You should’ve let it _hit me_ ,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier’s hand curls around his, “I’ve taken _worse,”_

“It would’ve hit your _throat,_ Geralt,”

But,

“I’ve _never_ felt a fear like that,” the Witcher confesses roughly, “not in any memory I can still reach,” and,

“You were right, we should’ve _left_ ,” and,

“Should’ve gone to the coast, run away with you,”

"Yeah," Jaskier murmurs, "we should've,"

Yet,

“Here we are,” the bard says then, _quiet_ , and _everything is_ – it’s _so quiet_ , so _suddenly_ , and,

Geralt had _never_ felt a fear like he had in the cave when he caught Jaskier as he fell, a fear that chewed through him like a Chimera’s poison surging through his veins, a fear that had threatened to unmake him _right_ there, right _then_ , bowed over the bloodied bard in his arms,

And Geralt’s _never_ felt fear like that, and the mere _memory_ of it is making him wonder if he’s going to shed his _skin_ like he had his armor,

But,

_At the same time,_

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt the fire of _want_ so _gently_ before,

_But then,_

This isn’t a simple want,

Some simple desire he can sate with faceless bodies and coins,

This isn’t a _fleeting_ moment of _captured comfort_ , kept desperate and fruitless between his calloused palms like too-fine sand,

Isn’t some false, _bought_ softness,

And the absolutely _brutal_ sweetness of it all hits Geralt like a blade to the chest as he tips forwards,

As he thinks of the _fear_ , holds the bitter, ashen memory of it on his tongue,

As he lets the _gentle want_ sweep, _velvet-soft_ , over his bones,

As he puts his lips to the gnarled, violet scar on Jaskier’s flat belly,

And,

Something _fanged,_

Something _possessive,_

Something _white-hot,_

Something _Witcher-fierce,_

Unfurls in Geralt’s gut,

And he growls low, _deadly,_

Hauls himself off the floor as he sweeps Jaskier up at the same time, and the bard _laughs_ , laughs wetly and clutches at Geralt’s shoulders,

And then Geralt’s pressing him down to the sheets, the sheets that smell _only_ of the bard that brought him to his knees,

But soon it’ll smell like the _both_ of them, and the green-eyed thing in Geralt’s chest goes red-eyed as he shrugs out of his tunic, and fire surges up _right_ under his skin when Jaskier’s hands splay over his bare chest, and he tastes like saltwater and the fucking sensing potion he’d splashed all over Geralt, because he’d been convinced this was some cruel trick,

And Geralt’s shoulders bow with the weight of his guilt, even as Jaskier slides soothing hands over them, even as he traces the scars that mark Geralt of Rivia as a _living_ , breathing _weapon,_

Even as Jaskier kisses him like he’s the finest, _sweetest_ wine he’s ever tasted, not the thousand miles Geralt had run to find him, not the sensing potion or the foul oil,

Not the weapon that the world’s carved of him,

And,

“Forgive me,” he pleads again, _growling_ it, _groaning_ it,

“Maybe,” Jaskier murmurs, and those blue eyes are _dark,_ dewy,

And then the bard surges up to drag all the air from Geralt’s lungs as his clever fingers pop the clasps on Geralt’s breeches,

And Geralt _gives_ , gives all that he’s _got left_ , gives until he _hurts_ from it, as desperation carves a new kind of pain through his skin, as it scars his bones, as it gnaws through any lingering cowardice haunting the ruins of hope still left inside him, and,

Geralt moves only to kick out of his breeches, takes his hands from the blessed body beneath him only to peel Jaskier out of his fine violet trousers, and then there’s nothing between them but the aching chasm Geralt ripped open that day on the mountain, the one he’ll give anything, _everything,_ to mend,

And,

Geralt can’t help the violent, _quaking_ groan that punches out of him as he peels Jaskier out of his fine violet trousers; the bard is hard, the soft pink head of his cock weeping thick pearls _, and_ –

“The smell of you,” Geralt growls, sliding a shaking hand over Jaskier’s brow, gentling his hair back, away from those sky-blue eyes, “Jaskier… the _smell_ of you,”

And,

“You’re _shaking,_ Witcher,”

“You _terrify_ me, little lark,”

“I’d write that one down,” Jaskier murmurs thickly, lips ghosting over Geralt’s, “but no one in the _world_ would _ever_ believe me,” and,

Geralt drags his lips over the smooth edge of Jaskier’s jaw, catches the delicate golden bauble dangling from his ear between his teeth; he buries his nose behind it, breathes in the _heat_ of Jaskier’s skin, unlike anything, beyond addicting,

Says, “the only _belief_ that matters to me is _yours_ ,”

And Jaskier _groans_ so fucking _sweet_ with it, hips straining up against Geralt’s, and his thighs cling greedily to Geralt’s hips as he drags blunt fingertips up Geralt’s burdened spine,

As he begs,

“ _Fuck,_ Geralt, _would you just –“_

And,

Geralt lets Jaskier’s commanding hands drag him in for a kiss that has Geralt grinding down against the bard, has them both panting like damn _dogs_ , has them rutting _gracelessly_ like a pair of wild things, _because,_

He’s _drunk_ on the mere _scent_ of Jaskier, of cedar, smoke, summer rose,

On the way Jaskier’s tongue curls around his own, the way it slides, slow and aching, along the roof of his mouth, the way it coaxes out everything Geralt’s got left to give,

On the way Jaskier’s fingertips trace the scars that run over Geralt’s guilt-bearing shoulders - bowed and _bent,_ so close to _broken_ \- the scars that mark Geralt as a _weapon,_ but as Jaskier touches him, Geralt feels more like a man than he thinks he _ever_ has,

_And,_

“Forgive me,” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s lips, as he slides a hand between his thighs, and the oil he’s got dripping from his fingers smells of lavender, of mint, and Geralt’s spine curves with a silent, _devastating_ groan as he swallows down the soft keen Jaskier sings out when Geralt sinks a finger into him, into the _tight_ heat of his body, and,

“Forgive me,” Geralt _pleads,_ as Jasker’s back arches _so_ fine beneath him, as his head falls back, and Geralt laves a greedy tongue over the pale column of his throat, over the river of his pulse, and he can _feel_ Jaskier’s heartbeat, feels it echoing through the ruins of hope left in his chest, and,

“ _Forgive me_ ,” he moans, _right_ against Jaskier’s ear; the bard clings to his shoulders, digs his fingertips into the scars that mark him a weapon, as Geralt finally, _finally_ sinks into him, when he buries himself between Jaskier’s trembling thighs, _and,_

He’s never felt like more of a man than he does _right here,_

_Right now,_

Never felt more _human,_

Never felt more alight with _hope,_

Than he does as he sinks into Jaskier, as he swallows down Jaskier’s _hitching,_ panting breaths, as he slides a possessive, _brutal_ arm under the _divine_ curve of the bard’s arching back, and,

“I _hate you,”_ Jaskier breathes tightly against Geralt’s tongue, “and I’m going to for a while yet,”

And,

“I know,”

But,

“ _Don’t stop,_ Geralt, _oh_ , right there, _oh,_ fuck – “

And Jaskier’s voice is edged with a _song_ as Geralt thrusts _deeper_ , as he catches one of the bard’s thighs, gentles it up higher on his waist, and it’s the kind of song that calls to the fire surging up under Geralt’s skin, the kind of song that has his spine trying to bend through his muscle, the kind of song that has his cock _aching_ where it’s buried _so deep_ in Jaskier, in the _wet_ , tight heat of him, and,

Once Jaskier starts to sing, like this _, all_ for Geralt,

He doesn’t _stop,_

And,

Geralt _revels_ in every keening lyric that falls from his kiss-slick lips; he basks in every throaty, deep-chested _moan,_ every breathless, _desperate_ cry of his name, a hymn holier than any Geralt’s ever heard in his too-long life, _and,_

He thinks he could _live here_ , like this, _forever,_

Buried in the _tight,_ wet heat of Jaskier’s body, basking in the song he’s carving from the depths of the bard’s soul, surrounded by the scent of him, like nothing in the world,

And Geralt digs his teeth into the pillar of Jaskier’s throat as he makes love to him like he should’ve from the start, hands curving around Jaskier’s heaving ribs, ribs sculpted from finest marble _all_ to fit so _snug_ and _so_ fine between the sword-calloused palms of a wayward Witcher, 

And Geralt swallows down Jaskier’s shattering breaths as he comes apart beneath him, sweat glistening on his chest, on his brow,

In the hollow of his bitten throat,

And Geralt thinks –

Thinks his _too-long life_ might’ve been _worth_ something,

If it was all to find _this_ ,

To find the broken-winged bardling that clings _so tight_ to him as Geralt moves inside him, paints himself over his bones, the bardling that breathes Geralt’s name like a _prayer_ , a _devotional_ , all while he tells Geralt he _hates_ him when he really means is –

“ _Don’t go_ ,” and Jaskier’s voice is soft, words spoken right against Geralt’s cheekbone, but his hands are fierce as they grip Geralt’s hips, bid him to move faster, _harder_ , and Geralt lets out a sound like he’s been stabbed as he helplessly obeys; “don’t you dare disappear,”

And,

 _“Forgive me_ ,”

And,

“Maybe,” and,

“If you _touch me,_ fuck, _Geralt,_ I _need_ –“

And,

“You _have me_ , hold on, little lark,” and,

“The _smell_ of you, sweet thing, _fuck,”_ and,

“Oh, _fuck,”_

And if Geralt thought the scent of him was overwhelming _before,_

It’s almost like he’s been _possessed,_

As Jaskier comes undone with an agonized, _grating_ keen, a sound he buries _right_ against Geralt’s cheek, as white heat coats his quivering belly, oozes over Geralt’s hand, streaks over his heaving chest, _and,_

If the scent of Jaskier had been _all-consuming_ before,

_This is –_

This is enough to make Geralt feel like he’s being _devoured_ by the savage thing that rears its head in his chest; he snarls against Jaskier’s lips, splays a hand over his jumping belly, smears opaline spunk into his skin, right over the gnarled scar,

And Jaskier clings so tight, as Geralt lets the savage thing devour him, a bit,

As he pumps his hips, digs so deep into the bardling beneath him,

And Jaskier’s still singing, still crooning, right against Geralt’s ear, murmuring sweet everythings that Geralt hasn’t earned, doesn’t deserve,

Basks in regardless,

Things like;

“Never felt _anyone_ like you, could write _thousands_ of songs about the way you feel, _fuck,_ Geralt,” and,

“Don’t stop, want to _hear you_ , want to _see_ you fall apart,” and,

“Never going to be able to get _rid_ of me now, white wolf,”

And,

 _“Good,”_ Geralt growls against Jaskier’s lips, tastes his grin like honeywine, and then the coil at the base of his weary, _hurting_ spine all but _splinters_ as Jaskier’s eyes rove over his face, sky-blue gleaming with firelight, and Geralt pins Jaskier’s hips down with a hand as his own _stutter,_ as he empties himself between the bard’s clinging thighs,

And,

Geralt burrs _low_ in his wool-packed chest, noses over the damp column of Jaskier’s throat,

Feels like he’s drifting outside of his own body, a bit,

As the heady, _thick_ scent of sex hangs in the air, closes in around them like the gentlest haze,

And Jaskier huffs hoarsely when Geralt nuzzles up under his jaw, licks at the sweat that drips down his temple,

And silence settles like fog over them, for a time; it’s a gentle silence, the kind of silence that comes with a tenderness Geralt’s not felt in what feels like an age, and he noses over Jaskier’s chest as he reacquaints himself with the cadence of the bard’s heartbeat, and,

“Forgive me,” and Geralt says it so quietly against Jaskier’s ear, one hand sliding up to cradle his jaw, and Jaskier’s lips ghost over the corner of Geralt’s mouth, the mouth that would spend days, _months_ , years begging it over and _over_ , if that’s what it _takes,_

But,

“Maybe,” Jaskier murmurs, and those blue eyes are clever and over-bright as they flicker up to meet his own; the bard reaches up, fingertips lighting under Geralt’s chin, and he thumbs over Geralt’s lips as he says, tightly, “if you’re not some cruel dream,”

And Geralt’s fool heart goes _sideways_ when he says it,

Feels _brittle,_

Feels stronger than it’s _ever_ been,

And Geralt gathers him up,

As Jaskier bites his bottom lip,

As he tangles their legs together,

As the bard drags the blankets over their hips,

And the bed smells like Jaskier, like Geralt, and he’s _helpless_ to it, when Jaskier catches his face between his hands, when he coaxes Geralt into a kiss that has his halved stomach leaping up between his lungs, _and,_

Everything is so _warm_ , so _heady_ , so _thick,_

Dewy,

And Geralt could _die_ here,

Could die a happy man here,

A _fulfilled_ man,

As Jaskier slides his arms around Geralt’s scarred shoulders, his guilt-bearing shoulders,

And Geralt noses over the front of his throat, slides penitent hands over his waist, too _thin_ , but so _perfect_ with how it fits in the gentle cage of his palms,

And,

“I’d make you bathe,” Jaskier says, sounding well-fucked, which it sets off a fission of possessive _pride_ in Geralt’s gut; “but I don’t want to let you go.”

“Can bathe in the morning,” Geralt grunts, not overly thrilled by the prospect already, and Jaskier’s lips curve as he brushes them over the crooked bridge of Geralt’s nose, “not that bad,”

“It is,” the bard says wryly, “you’re just lucky I lo–“

And Geralt looks up with his fool heart lodged right back in his throat as Jaskier cuts himself off, as his brow furrows up tight, and the Witcher cranes his neck, coaxes his pursed lips soft, slides a hand up the curve of Jaskier’s spine to cup the nape of his neck,

Says,

“ _Mhm_. I am,” and,

“Sleep,” Geralt burrs, because Jaskier is all but melting into the sheets, eyelids drooping, and Geralt wonders when the last time he _truly slept_ was – _real_ sleep, not a slumber he forced himself into with one too many cups of wine,

And he thumbs over Jaskier’s cheekbone,

Slides up to gather the bard against his chest, and Jaskier was melting into the sheets until he’s melting against Geralt instead, brow pressed to his collarbone, and one of Jaskier’s hands comes up to curl around the silver medallion fallen in the scarce space between them, curls around the medallion Geralt can’t remember ever taking off like it’s a tether that’ll keep him right where he’s supposed to be,

And it’s enough to make Geralt’s throat _burn_ , enough to make him feel like his stomach’s been halved, like his lungs have been set loose to float into his shoulders,

And he’s run a thousand miles to get here, is as exhausted as such a journey should leave him,

But he doesn’t sleep,

_Not yet,_

As Jaskier’s heartbeat settles to a soft, slumbering rhythm,

As the night deepens outside the window,

As rain patters against the glass,

And the damn door’s still unlocked,

But _now,_

Geralt is between the bard and anything that might come for him, because –

_Falls into trouble often, your bard,_

And,

Geralt wonders what _other things_ Yennefer’s been _teaching_ Jaskier, teaching him to keep him safe in Geralt’s bull-headed absence, and he wonders _why_ – why the sorceress _cared enough_ to do so _at all,_ because it’s not like they ever got on very well, the pair of them,

And he wonders why Yennefer did it, as he slides a hand over Jaskier’s hair, brushes it back from his brow, follows the line of his jaw with a fingertip,

Wonders why she urged him to forsake his _fear,_

Even after he’d leashed her, a woman who’d spent so long trying to be free,

And his thoughts must carry him down into a brief sleep – _must,_ because between one heartbeat and the next, grey sunlight is spilling over the cluttered tavern room, and Geralt’s mind is pleasantly hazy as he blinks awake,

As he becomes aware of the fingertips that run over his back,

Aware of the scent that clings to the sheets,

To his skin,

The scent that lingers on the air,

_And,_

There are fingertips roving over his back,

Tracing the scars that mark him as a _weapon,_

And Geralt turns, stretches his legs while he does,

Turns and meets brilliant blue eyes,

And,

“Not a cruel dream, then,” Jaskier says after a beat, and _what else_ is he supposed to do,

What else _could_ Geralt do,

But roll Jaskier back into the sheets,

The sheets that smell of them both, a scent that he wishes he could bottle and _keep_ , wishes he could exist inside of,

But he’ll settle instead for;

A _deep_ , morning-stale kiss, the kind that has his bones aching with the silken _heat_ of it,

Clever fingers tangling through his hair,

A waist that fits so well and so snug between Geralt’s sword-calloused palms,

And,

He’ll settle for keeping the bard with the broken wing, the wing Geralt had broken, that day on the mountain, after Jaskier had taken the arrow meant for him,

And Geralt will spend _days,_ months, _years_ mending that wing, would take a dozen, a hundred, a _thousand_ arrows for the one thing he can’t lose,

_And,_

He’ll settle for –

“Not a cruel dream,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier slides a hand over his chest to feel the words, “just a very good one,”

And the bard laughs then, sudden and _bright_ , laughs and shakes his head as he says, “might want to leave the flowery shit to me, White Wolf,”

And Geralt _hums_ , drunk on the way Jaskier’s waist fits between his brutal hands, the way the bard watches him with a fledgling, newborn _hope_ blooming behind his sky-blue eyes,

On the scent of them both,

And he hums, nuzzles against the bridge of Jaskier’s nose,

Slides with ease between his thighs,

Says,

“Probably for the best,” and,

“It’s always better, when it’s _you_ ,”

And Jaskier drags him down for a kiss that’s all _heat_ , all _tongue_ , all budding _desperation_ , the kind that lights Geralt’s unburdened spine on _fire,_

And,

This is the luckiest he’s _ever_ been,

**Author's Note:**

> songs:  
> thousand miles - tove lo  
> salt - ava max  
> insomnia - daya


End file.
